After partially escaping my parents' cult-like grasp and landing at community college, I thought I was finally free —free to learn, free to date, free to figure out who I was without Bible verses watching me like a divine surveillance system.
And that's when I met Jake.
Tall, husky, with a happy smile, pretty eyes, and a baseball hat permanently glued to his head. Classic country boy. He wasn't just cute —he was safe. Sweet, gentle, and somehow interested in me. Me, the awkward, six-foot-tall human giraffe with social skills about as refined as a bumper car.
We started dating right after I turned 19. "Dating" meaning we spent every possible moment making out in his dorm between classes. I had finally discovered the joy of kissing without an audience, and I was obsessed.
But here's where it gets awkward.
I had this weird, stubborn idea that my first time had to be in my own bed. Maybe it was a subconscious rebellion against my parents' purity propaganda, like "Fine, I won't be pure, but at least I'll sin on my own terms." Or maybe I was just weird. Probably both.
So, when spring break rolled around and my entire family went on vacation without me (why didn't I go? Work? Rebellion? Who knows), I had the house to myself. Which meant Jake practically moved in for a few nights.
And then... it happened.
The world's most awkward, earnest attempt at sex. I was a nervous wreck. Jake was sweet but equally clueless. He insisted I be on top —something he'd "looked up" to make sure it was easier for me. At the time, I was a little weirded out. Now? I think it was adorable. It was his awkward, well-meaning way of trying to make it special.
Then I spent the next month terrorizing this poor boy with my newfound sexual freedom. Jake was my first taste of freedom. Which is probably why I tried to swallow him whole.
Every chance I got, I was dragging him to his dorm, my car, anywhere we could steal a moment. I had gone from "no experience" to "stage 10 clinger" overnight. I stayed late doing "homework" in his room. I skipped my own classes to spend time with him, like the gym class I was supposed to attend for credit. Jake worked at the school gym, and all I had to do was show up to pass the class. I was there every day, flirting, making out with him between his shifts. But because I forgot to sign in every time? I failed.
I bought him food. I bought him gifts. I even invited him to my family's Easter dinner. Because nothing says "not too clingy" like dragging your college boyfriend into a house full of Jesus art and casserole.
And oh, the Easter photo. I wish I could forget. My family insisted on a group picture, and there he was, awkwardly standing at the edge of the frame. Hat on, coat on, hands in his pockets, looking like he wanted to die. The photo looks like a hostage situation.
Jake was polite. Jake was sweet. And Jake eventually had enough.
He broke up with me. I did not take it well. I was devastated. Completely blindsided. I couldn't understand what I had done wrong, because of course, in my mind, wanting to spend every second of every day with someone wasn't a problem. It was love.
In reality, I was a stage 10 clinger with the emotional intelligence of a shaken soda can. But I didn't know that then. All I knew was that I was heartbroken.
Looking back now, I can almost hear my 19-year-old self screeching, "Why doesn't he want me?!" And I just want to pat her on the head and say, "Sweetie, you were a tornado in lip gloss. He didn't stand a chance."
The breakup hit me like a truck. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. All I could feel was this horrible, empty ache. I had to get him back. I had to make him stay. And in a panic, my brain served up the worst, most desperate idea imaginable.
Jake broke up with me around April 1st. April Fool's Day. And what did my clingy, desperate, panic-stricken brain do?
I told him I was pregnant.
Yes. I did that. I can feel your secondhand embarrassment, reader. Trust me, I've been living with it for years.
But before I continue, let me make something crystal clear: Faking a pregnancy is one of the most hurtful, damaging things you can do to another person. I know that now. It's not just a cruel trick —it's a gut punch to people who are actually struggling with infertility, loss, or the deep, painful desire to have a child. It's a betrayal of trust, and I'm not proud of it.
Back then, though? I was a mess. I was desperate. I thought maybe if he thought I needed him, he wouldn't leave. So I lied.
The second I sent that text —because of course it was a text —I knew I was an idiot. But his response was so... nice. He immediately started asking questions, making sure I was okay, and telling me he'd be there for me.
Attention. Glorious, intoxicating attention. Even though I was a complete wreck, I couldn't help but feel a rush of power. I was important again. I mattered.
But the problem with desperate lies? They eventually collapse.
After about an hour of basking in his sweet, supportive panic, I cracked. I laughed it off. "April Fools!" I said, trying to play it off as a joke. Except it wasn't funny. It was desperate. And he knew it.
Jake didn't say much after that. I didn't apologize. I just pretended it didn't happen, like shoving a skeleton back into a closet and hoping no one noticed the bones.
Looking back now, I cringe so hard I could turn inside out. It's the kind of thing I would never do now. But I wasn't a confident, self-aware woman back then. I was a terrified, attention-starved mess who thought being wanted —even through a lie —was better than being forgotten.
So, Jake, if you ever read this? I'm sorry. I was a human tornado, and you were just caught in the storm.
But if it helps, I did learn something. I learned that love isn't something you can force, and desperation doesn't make you lovable. It just makes you exhausting.